“Audio off,” Tahir said.
It’s started
. This should be a joyous
occasion, the fulfillment of his father’s plans, the true implementation of Qesan’s Cause. So
why did he feel so much dread and foreboding? He didn’t know how long he sat staring at his
hands, the hands with the scientific precision that Father needed, but the hands Father hated.
His father’s hatred wasn’t limited to his hands but concerned Tahir’s very existence, and for
good reason. Because of a Minoan attack upon their settlement, Tahir didn’t carry his father’s
genetic profile. When Tahir underwent paternity testing as an infant, Father’s probability of
paternity had been equivalent to any randomly selected man. As tradition demanded, Tahir’s
mother had been tortured into idiocy before the real cause was uncovered, giving Father leave
to blame his mother’s condition on the Minoans also. When the men in the thirty-thousand-strong
enclave learned they were all sterile after the Minoan attack, Father hadn’t celebrated the
exception of Tahir’s birth. After all, Tahir didn’t have the right genes.
The hatch to his quarters squealed as it opened and Tahir clenched his
fists as he rose to face Abram Hadrian Rouxe, the man he was only allowed to call Father inside
his own mind. Ironically, the man whose name derived from “father of multitudes” could no
longer reproduce, which fed the hatred and obsession that Abram lived and breathed.
“Why G-145?” Tahir asked.
Abram’s exact combination of alleles didn’t match Tahir’s, but they
still looked very much alike. They both had medium builds and shocks of thick, straight dark
hair over thin faces with natural scowls. After that, their differences were minor and one had
to peer closely to see that Tahir’s eyes were deep green rather than almost black. He also
didn’t have Abram’s pitted leathery skin, evidence of his father’s hard life.
“The resources in G-145 fulfill our objectives. Are you taking issue
with my choice?”
“We’re looking for a home where we can live in peace, but G-145 doesn’t
have a hospitable body of any sort, planet or moon. The last solar system did.” Tahir kept his
tone mild.
“That was a dry run. You didn’t expect me to move before I got the
Ura-Guinn data, did you? I had to have proof that a star of this type could survive a TD
detonation, while still destroying the buoy.” Abram looked over his shoulder. “Has Emery
checked in yet?”
“E-130 is opening in two years with a habitable planet. Wouldn’t the
Cause be served better by that system?” Tahir asked.
The schedules of the generational ship lines were well-known and Tahir
was comparing mission G-145, undertaken by the
Pilgrimage III
, to
mission E-130, started by the
Campaign II
thirty-seven years ago
and due to open in two years. Pre-Pax Minoica generational crews were opening both solar
systems, which was one of Abram’s criteria for his targets.
“There are issues with E-130. This system is our best bet.” Abram made a
gesture that signaled the end of the conversation, at least for him. “Is Emery delayed?”
“I thought the Cause was about living free from oppression and finding a
safe haven. G-145 doesn’t have the natural resources. . . .” His voice trailed away. Years of
dealing with outsiders’ ideas, yet always fearing his father’s next surprise visit, left Tahir
circumspect when stating his thoughts. Abram turned cold, dark eyes on him and he tried to keep
from flinching.
“If you question my decision, then you doubt my devotion to the
Cause.”
“No, Fa—Abram, I don’t.” Regrettably, Tahir did have doubts, but not
about Abram’s devotion. He wondered how his father had financed everything. Where had the money
come from? Were there hidden benefactors? After Abram had paid him one of those surprise visits
on Mars, he’d followed his father and seen him meeting with someone. It took more years to find
the identity of that someone, who turned out to be an obscure and anonymous aide who worked on
an Overlord’s staff. Since that time, Tahir had begun to wonder whether Abram’s plans, and
choices, were as independent as he maintained.
Yes, Father, I have plenty
of doubts
.
When Abram didn’t speak, Tahir added carefully, “It’s just that G-145
seems an unlikely target for the Cause, and I was hoping you’d illuminate me.”
“If you were truly the son of my loins, then you’d trust me. You’d have
no questions, no need for
illumination
.” Abram’s voice was
dangerously flat.
“I
am
your son, and perhaps my opinion
doesn’t matter to you.” Tahir looked away to avoid the confirmation in Abram’s eyes. “But, if
I’m confused about our objectives, what about the others? Those who follow you because you’ve
sold them on the chance to make a better world without the Consortium, the League, or the
Minoans?”
Abram shrugged. “They are only sheep that require a mission, and any
mission will do.”
“And sheep can be sacrificed.” The voice came from Emery, who appeared
next to Abram with a fierce grin on his face. “Particularly if they’re outsiders.”
“Emery!” Abram almost smiled as he embraced the youngest nephew of Qesan
Douchet.
Unnoticed, Tahir threw himself on his bunk as Emery, his senior by one
year, and Abram slapped each other on the back. He felt twinges of jealousy interspersed with
loathing as he watched Emery, whom Abram called the son of his spirit. Tahir was thirty years
old, yet he evidently still craved his father’s praise and attention. He wanted to shout that
this mission would be impossible without his “outside” life and education. After all, he had
risked imprisonment—but since he’d served his purpose and provided the tools necessary for
Abram’s plans, he was no longer of interest.
“Do we have to take
everybody
to G-145?”
asked Chander, standing in front of Isrid’s desk.
“We’re leaving your two older sisters, plus the entire household,
tutorial, and security staff on Mars. I wouldn’t agree that everybody is coming along.”
Terran State Prince Isrid Sun Parmet signed
absolutely
the last form he was going to look at before this trip. His
promotion to Overlord Three’s Assistant for the Exterior had engendered hefty amounts of
paperwork. He took a deep breath as he put down his newest slate, an accurate facsimile of the
devices made in the Consortium, but not as robust.
“That’s not what I mean. Does—” An announcement from the ship’s systems
cut through the boy’s voice.
“All passengers must take their delta-tranquilizer and web into bunks
for safety.” The ship repeated this warning three times while Isrid watched his son, eleven
years old and carrying the significant name of Chander Sky Parmet, squirm with
frustration.
“Have you been doing your
somaural
exercises?” Isrid asked sharply before the boy said anything more.
“Yes.” Chander’s face turned even more sullen and he looked down at his
feet.
“Then use them. I want objectivity. If you have to add emotion, do it
somaurally
.”
To give his son credit, he tried. He drew himself up into a straight
stance and Isrid saw him physically struggle to remove the resentment from his face. However,
Chander was beginning adolescence and the self-destructive, emotional bedlam that pitted every
youth against the world was too hard to hide. Already the anger ingrained in his mind showed in
his body. Isrid sighed internally; it would be years before Chander purged the demons of his
adolescence and became a thinking being again. If Isrid wanted to spend the time to
concentrate, he’d see his son’s beautiful orange-yellow aura muddied with darkness.
“I don’t need both my mothers along to babysit me.” Pride screamed from
Chander’s face and body, despite his attempts for objectivity. His arrogant profile, golden
skin, and green eyes came from Isrid, but his thick chestnut hair with burgundy tones was a
faded imitation of Sabina’s. The combination was striking. Already Chander was catching looks
from both females and males, and being the son of a Terran State Prince added to the curiosity.
At this point, Isrid couldn’t give Chander enough of his attention. He now wished he’d added
another male into his multimarriage, even though he and his wives hadn’t recovered from the
trauma of losing his brother and potential co-husband.
“Both your mothers have told me their reasons for visiting G-145, and
they have nothing to do with you.” Isrid made sure his hand signals were precise.
“Even Pri’mom?” he asked, referring to his primary mother.
Of course, Sabina was probably behind this in some way. Her main hobby
was being a master manipulator, while Garnet, his other co-wife, was almost boring in her lack
of layers. With Garnet, what you saw was what you got. With Sabina, one never knew her true
motives, which added to her spice. However, Isrid was tired and he wasn’t willing to speculate
on Sabina’s motives, particularly with his young son.
“Pri’mom hasn’t said you need oversight, but I’m sure she can’t resist
critiques. Am I correct?” Isrid smiled as Chander ducked his head again. “And as long as she
isn’t correcting you in front of others, perhaps you should note her advice.”
“I can handle that, Dad.”
Isrid waited.
“Maria’s out there, you know.” Chander chewed his lip and shifted his
weight from foot to foot.
The shipwide announcement telling passengers to web in for the eventual
N-space drop blared again and while it repeated, Isrid observed his son. How much should he
tell the boy? Chander was old enough to know that marriage wasn’t for love; its purposes were
for breeding approval, raising children, and, of course, serving as a political tool. If his
son knew about Sabina’s obsession with Maria Guillotte, then he probably knew both his primary
parents were Maria’s regular lovers. However, Maria could never enter a Terran marriage due to
genetic damage she’d received near Tantor’s Sun. For Sabina, that made Maria an enticing
morsel, especially because she could never fully own and control her.
Isrid wondered if Sabina had thought he was jealous when he’d sent Maria
away two months ago. But he’d assigned Maria to oversee the contractors in G-145 because of the
sensitivity of the situation. Maria handled people and personality problems deftly, in addition
to being his best analyst with a military intelligence background. Those Terran contractors had
only a tenuous right to work on that moon—none of them knew he’d gotten the leases by
kidnapping, torturing, and coercing Major Ariane Kedros.
Kedros had seemed immune to their standard drug-induced torture and he’d
had to threaten to expose her and her former crew as the destroyers of Ura-Guinn, at which
point she’d signed the Aether Exploration leases over. Maria understood the double-blackmail
scheme hanging over the leases, and how everything depended upon Kedros staying quiet.
“Maria’s not the
real
reason she’s going,
you know,” Chander said cannily, breaking Isrid’s train of thought.
“And what is?” Isrid asked.
“I don’t know, but I can sense
revenge
. I
wanted to warn you.” Such adult words from a boy of eleven.
Isrid looked for signs that Chander was lying or exaggerating. He
wasn’t, which led Isrid to consider the idea that Sabina had underestimated her own son and let
her guard down, something she would never do around Isrid.
“Thank you, Chander.” Isrid inclined his head as if he were talking to
an adult and added the signal,
I am grateful
.
His response delighted the boy. Isrid sent him to his quarters. He
called and placated the ship’s crew, who were worried about missing the departure window from
Mars Orbital Two. Then he took his D-tranny and quickly webbed himself into the bunk in his
private quarters.
As he dozed, Isrid’s mind skipped to Major Kedros. His first action,
when he woke, would be to order an intelligence report on her recent activities. Although the
Feeds ecstatically proclaimed the Ura-Guinn sun had survived, his classified government sources
didn’t project a good prognosis for the habitats in the system. Instead of going out quickly in
a nova, his brother and family might have suffered a slow, agonizing death from cosmic
radiation caused by flares or coronal mass emissions, which didn’t engender any sympathy in him
for Kedros. He smiled as he fell asleep. He hoped Kedros had been dismissed or, at the least,
suffered the wrath of AFCAW’s Directorate of Intelligence for opening G-145 to Terran defense
contractors.
CHAPTER 4
The crèche-get in their city-ships aren’t like you and me.
They’re always out of fashion after they get to their ar
rival point, where they sit for a couple years, sucking up
all the news they can and begging for spare gametes to
keep their gene pool healthy. Makes me wonder what
kind
of agreements the Generational Lines make with
the Minoans. [Reply not indexed.] They’re the only ones
entrusted with installing the precious time buoys, that’s
why.
—
Grant Iordanou
, Public Node at XiCheng
Crossing &
Stephanos Street, Alexandria, Hellas Prime, 2105.99.17.02
UT, indexed by
Heraclitus 12
under Conflict Imperative